Classic Poem

Summer has come again in full perfection.
There is peace over these farms; over the grain
The wind blows lightly, rippling golden billows.
There is no scar left, no shadow, no remembrance of pain.

Where the stream ran red, the buttercups are growing,
Where a great charge fell, the orchards ripen and bend;
Earth has forgotten, earth has healed, not remembered —
Earth, that holds the root and core, the beginning and end.

This is peace, this fervor of growth, the mighty
Ripening, breeding blaze of midsummer sun.
When the last gun stilled, the last horse reared, stumbled
Into the last ditch, this healing had begun.

Over your own far-stretching field of battle,
With deep scarred earth-works raised against pain and grief,
Do not walk. Do not set stones for remembrance,
Carved sharp in anguish, carved into clear relief.

Let the grass grow! Let the seeds root and scatter.
Fill the hollows with blossoms, the air with their breath.
You shall reap a harvest above your sorrow,
Peace from despair and destruction, life from death.